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jedimic
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Name: Bob
Country: United States
State: Illinois
Metro: Chicago
Birthday: 1/28/1983
Gender: Male
Interests: Animals, Femalis Oppositsextus, Monkeys, Movies, Friends, Dinosaurs, Books about Pirating Ninja Wizards, Redheads, Soy Chocolate Milk, Cheap Trains Around, Art, Games, Traveling, Water, Buffalo Style (which has nothing to do with our friendly bison), Sporks, Chopsticks, The Dream of "Hanging Out", Ladies Dancing in Skirts, Eprops, Smiles, Cultures
Expertise: Writing. Computers. Bad 日本語. Being Lonely. Jobless Slacker. Loyal Friend without the friends.
Occupation: Artist
Industry: Other
Message: message me
Member Since:
6/26/2005
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| So yeah, I went downtown today to see said movie. As I was getting ready to head out, my mom asks me the name. I tell her. Then she's like 'that movie didn't get too good of reviews.'
'mom, don't tell me how good or bad a movie was critiqued before I go to see it!' Seeing as, yeah, I haven't been out to see a movie in a while. Not since pirates ruled the Caribbean, to be exact, so like 200-300 years. Movie critics are, usually, rather acquired taste people. They look for the art. Snakes on a plane... is not art. It's fun. I don't expect any Oscars to grace it's mantle, unless it's an award for the number of snakes featured in a movie. Though Indiana Jones may or may not beat it. And the movie title tells you exactly what it is. If it was any other movie, the one-line synopsis that accompanied it would be snakes on a plane. The lead actor, Samuel L. Jackson, only joined the cast because of the title. And when they were thinking of changing the name of the movie, he said hell no.
So yeah, I give it a thumb-up for fun. Oh yeah, spoiler warning. There are snakes. On a plane.
In other news, I wonder how logical it would be for me to ride my bike to the station. I dunno, I don't know much about bike security or how to travel on roads with lots of cars on a bike. I mean, do I go on the sidewalk or something? I thought that was illegal in the rules of the road or something. But, who really sticks their hands out to turn on a bike also?
I wonder if it was ironic I had a monty python shirt on during the movie. Ni!
I wonder if the sequel will be Bears on a Boat. Or Tom on Myspace.
Speaking of Bears, pre-season game tonight! woo, go bears! | | |
| Packages. Something more precious a letter. A letter is two dimensional, words written on it, words that give ideas and emotion. But, all too realistically, they fail on one count. Eighty percent of all communication is non-verbal. Without word. Gesture, touch, expression. All these things... are missing from that flimsy piece of paper. Greeting cards are folded. They can stand up, upon a surface. But a light wind will blow them away, lift them up like that carefree plastic bag, drifting on the currents, flying above your head on a cloudy day. It lacks weight, but still, we give them out because, I know, just as you feel... you watch that plastic bag and wish you too could fly so lightly. To take off your layered coat and feel the refreshing spring or fall on your back. To feel the cool but not to feel cold. To feel it around the rim of your tired eyes.
Packages are more than that. When you make a package, you seal something up. You know the second you close it, you'll probably never see the contents again. You are taking it, and hiding it away from the very sun, until it reaches it destination. You put physical objects, whatever they might be, but something that is more than just words, into that package and hope. Something real. That is what they are, something concrete. Tangible. And, you have no control over where it will end up. You can just label the package and hope. Hope that it meets it's destination. We fear sending them, not because we don't want them to be received, but because they might not make it to the recipient.
How sad is luggage that ends up on the other side of the world, or a package lost, filled with love or friendship, collecting dust amid a sortie of other packages. Sealed away from the world, waiting for the center of a surprise birthday boy or girl to walk in on the dimly lit room so it can leap up and shout SURPRISE! ... and the anticipation is washed away by years. And the physical nature of it, the expression of whatever it represents is slowly numbed. Faded away like the color of newspapers. Turning hues of browns and yellows. Pale like a video display box left in the sun for ages unending. One day it will be open. But there won't be life to it. It will be simple objects. Junk. The person who was supposed to receive it had many birthdays, and then no more. The package died, suffocated like a dozen newborn chicks, hoping to become roosters, feeling useless, tossed out in airtight bags, tossed in dumpsters. How cute they are, but in the end only the bones of their brethren give them the bedding to rest eternally on. That is a lost package, a lost star thrown out into the universe. It is, in essence, uncertainty.
People feel the same. We are eternally packages. Outside can be worn or pretty, but in the end it is just a container. The soul, the idea of the soul, is what makes us physical. Our endless beating heart makes us different from the stiff cold death of a corpse. When you touch another, they feel that warmth in your hands. The warmth of your blood, pumped via your heart, supplied by oxygen from your lungs, attached to the trees that produced the oxygen, rooted into the ground you feel upon your feet. It is a cycle. Your brain knows this, just as when it touches that other person's hand, it responds. The certain bends. The uncertainty of what that person represents. It is an unknown. Something out of our control. That is what makes it different from touching our own hands.
Our souls are the contents of our package. That idea of energy that is neither created nor destroyed. When we die, it seems logical to me that is what is missing. That is why I rarely shed a tear looking at a body. The body isn't the person I knew. The soul detached, the heart stopped, the brain fell silent, all that electrical energy, that pattern that represents the mind... vanished. The potential is gone, and it is an empty package. It is then I realize, the contents are what I see when I see that bag flying freely overhead. That is what happens when we die. We simply detach and float away, float away on the winds, into the sky.
Packages as we are, we fear change. It is one thing knowing where that package will be. On the table, by the bread basket, on the piano bench. These are places. That is why the literal package is uncertain. We might assume or hope it gets there, but it is not in a set place. We put it in motion, rather than setting it in a place. What if I did mail myself to Japan? I am wary, uncertain. I cannot be sure that I end up where I wish to be. Leaving what I know, the people I know, behind, and being in motion. Being someplace else, foreign. To those who live there, Japanese, I would be most certainly the foreigner, but the world would shift - and I would be in a foreign place. I suppose I fear this. It is uncertainty. Who knows if I will get lost on the way. Who knows if I will find myself forgotten by those who my hand should touch. Words cannot express what is lost, it is the lack of words and the expression that follows is what would be absent. And ultimately, years later, I want to be as carefree as that plastic bag. I do not want to be snagged in the branches of a tree. Because... what is inside this package of mine... is something precious... something deeper than what any word can define. A star that is lost can certainly shine, but if nobody is there to witness it... | | |
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